Keeping the World Away (16 page)

*

Priscilla did not know how to repack her valise. Charlotte had always packed her things, wherever she was going and, though she had watched, and tried to pay attention, she had learned nothing. There had never been any need to learn how to do such a mundane job when, if Charlotte was not to hand, ever eager and willing, there were maids available. But at the Hôtel Crillon the maid she had asked for did not come and she had brought no maid of her own – ‘Quite unnecessary,’ her husband-to-be had said, in the excellent and expensive hotels in which they would be staying. So Priscilla sat on the bed, trying not to catch sight of the appalling stain on the sheets, and wondered what she should do. But her new husband was impatient. The cab to take
them
to the station was ordered for two o’clock and they must be ready, there was no time to await the elusive maid. Feeling dizzy – she had hardly slept, and had wept surreptitiously a good deal – Priscilla began shoving clothes into the valise any old how. ‘Take the old labels off,’ Robert instructed her, ‘and put this new one on, firmly.’ Priscilla stared at him as though he had asked her to do something requiring Herculean strength. Robert ripped the old labels off himself. Quickly, he scribbled their next destination on new labels, and handed them to his wife. He knew he should be tolerant, but he was finding it hard, and he, too, had no servant with him. A gentleman could travel without one these days, and he always had an eye on expense.

He left the bedroom and went to complain in person about the maid’s not appearing. Priscilla could not get the lid of her valise closed. In tears, she pushed and pushed, and tried to sit on the lid, but it was no good. Something would have to come out. She pulled out her nightdress (hateful garment it suddenly seemed, and now torn) and thrust it down to the bottom of the rumpled bedclothes. Extracting it made little difference. Her bed jacket would have to be sacrificed too, and her robe, which grieved her – it was very pretty, embroidered with pink rosebuds – but she would get Robert to buy her a new one in Nice. With difficulty, she could now push down the lid. At that moment, a bellboy came to collect the luggage and she thrust the valise at him, glad to be rid of it.

The maid, finally arriving, found the new labels lying on the bed. She was far more interested in the beautiful robe and bed jacket, and wondered how she could smuggle them out of the hotel. Perhaps she would hand in one of them, together with the nightdress she later rescued.

*

A month later, when he had returned from his far from satisfactory honeymoon (if only he’d
known
Priscilla), Robert Charlesworth launched a determined investigation into how his wife’s valise could just have disappeared. Since Priscilla had never confessed that she had not attached the clearly written labels he had given her – she was already afraid of his temper – he was at
a
distinct disadvantage and was soon aware of this. The manager of the Hôtel Crillon was emphatic: the bellboy had collected the Charlesworths’ luggage and the porter had taken it to the waiting cab. Had Mr Charlesworth counted the pieces put into the cab before departure? No? It was not his job? It was not the job of the porter either. Perhaps the missing valise had gone in another cab, or to the wrong station? With respect,
profound
respect, Mr Charlesworth should make enquiries elsewhere.

But ‘elsewhere’ was a hopeless place. He was asked, by all he contacted, to describe the valise in precise terms. Priscilla could not. It was brown, she thought, but more of a yellow; it was square, or maybe more oblong in shape; it had two brass locks, or maybe three, or maybe four. Charlotte came to her aid in the end, giving an absolutely accurate description and remembering, as indeed Lady Falconer did, that it had been purchased at Harrod’s. Harrod’s were pleased to supply a catalogue, in which there was a photograph of the said valise, and this was sent off to the police in Paris (who, naturally, were not in the least interested). Then someone suggested that the valise might somehow have been sent back to Victoria Station, mixed up with someone else’s luggage. Robert promptly charged off to Victoria’s Lost Property office, picture of the valise in hand (though why he should go to so much trouble no one could understand, least of all Priscilla).

He was aware, when he took it, that the valise he had claimed as his wife’s might very well not be hers. Harrod’s had sold a great many of these things and besides the one offered for his inspection looked far more battered than Priscilla’s had any right to be. He had been asked if he could identify any belongings inside (it had been forced open) and thought the nightdress on top was his wife’s (it was white, wasn’t it, with lace at the neck?). He signed a chit, and took the valise not immediately to Priscilla in Oxfordshire but to her family home in London. He asked Lady Falconer and Charlotte to examine it before he restored it to its owner. ‘It is the same
sort
of valise but much more used,’ Charlotte said, ‘anyone can see that, but it is what is inside that will prove it is not Priscilla’s.’ As soon as it was opened, she flung
the
nightdress on the top aside – ‘
That
is not Priscilla’s,’ she declared, and, after a quick rummage through, ‘nothing here is Priscilla’s. It is not her valise.’

Robert refused to take it back to Victoria Station. Lady Falconer was rather taken aback at the vehemence of his refusal – ‘But it is dishonest, Robert, to keep someone else’s property.’ ‘Someone has kept my wife’s,’ Robert said, to which Charlotte riposted, ‘That is illogical. There may be clues somewhere,’ she went on, ‘as to whose it is. We should search for them – think how grateful the owner might be.’ Lady Falconer thought rifling through another person’s belongings most distasteful, but Sir Edward, when brought into the frame, said Charlotte’s idea was sensible. It was agreed that he would stand by while his daughter did the detective work and that if no identification proved possible he would see that the valise was returned to Victoria Station’s Lost Property department.

Charlotte was thrilled. The mysterious piece of luggage was placed on the morning-room table and, watched by her amused father, she began. Carefully, almost respectfully, she took out item after item and laid them beside the case. The clothes were not in the least like Priscilla’s trousseau. They were plain, though of good materials, and the colours were strong – deep blues, vivid greens, and a great deal of bright red. Charlotte was forming an image of their owner as she unpacked. Someone, she speculated, who was artistic, who had a love of colour and knew how to match it. Someone who walked wherever she went (three pairs of almost workmanlike boots and only one pair of light shoes). Knowing the structure of this particular valise as she did, from packing Priscilla’s so recently, she saved the compartment in the lid until the last. ‘Now, here,’ she said to her father, smiling, ‘is where we might expect to find a letter or a book with a name in, or some such.’

What she found was a painting. ‘Oh!’ whispered Charlotte, looking at it. ‘Oh! It’s lovely!’

*

The valise and its contents, including the painting, went back to the Lost Property at Victoria Station. It broke Charlotte’s heart, but there was no honest alternative. Her father consoled her with
the
news that if, after three months, nobody claimed the valise, and could prove it was theirs, then she could buy it from the appropriate authority. Not much would be asked for it, he thought, since there was nothing special about its contents. ‘The painting is special,’ Charlotte said. ‘I doubt if anyone will have the wit to see that,’ Sir Edward said, ‘and it is not signed, which would reduce any value it might have.’ ‘Someone,’ said Charlotte, ‘will be missing it dreadfully, someone will be frantic.’ ‘We will see,’ her father said. ‘They may search in the wrong place, or something may have happened to the owner. One never knows. The people at Victoria Lost Property are incompetent, the place is chaotic. Have patience.’

Patience was a virtue, however, which his daughter did not possess. The three months was an eternity, one during which she yearned and prayed for the painting to return to her, investing it with mythical powers impossible to explain. Her hunger for it was passionate, and even her father thought it a little ridiculous, considering she had hardly seen the painting before it was returned. He did not say, as her mother did, ‘For heaven’s sake, it is only a picture.’ He could see that it was a very skilful picture, painted, he guessed, in tiny brushstrokes, the range of colours narrow, and the lack of any figure giving it a sense of mystery. But he expressed some exasperation with Charlotte’s endless nagging about bothering the Lost Property people to see what was happening. He also hurt her by suggesting that she was being a little affected, and that he deplored affectation of any kind. And when she burst into tears and maintained she felt about the painting in the valise the way he felt about his Pieter de Hoogh he was angry with her. He said that all his teaching had been in vain if she could not see the difference between a masterpiece and what was almost certainly the work of a talented amateur.

‘Papa,’ Charlotte said, ‘I am in love with it. It was love at first sight, and love may have made me blind.’

‘For heaven’s sake, child!’ her father said, and refused to have the painting mentioned again.

II

CHARLOTTE AND HER
father dined together every evening, sitting not at the large table in the dining room but at the round table in the breakfast room, something Lady Falconer would never have countenanced, but she had gone to be with Priscilla. Nor would she have approved of the menus. Charlotte was allowed to order the meals and took full advantage of being able to choose her favourite dishes and eliminate those she detested. They had chocolate steam pudding every single night, served with thin, ice-cold cream (Charlotte was very particular about the runniness and the temperature of the cream, aping without realising it, her mother’s exacting standards). They had no red meat – about which Sir Edward did voice a complaint, so he was permitted roast beef one night during the second week, though Charlotte did not touch it – and absolutely no offal. Chicken and fish dishes were included, and there were plenty of vegetables (but no cabbage or cauliflower). The cook did not care. Money was saved in a way she knew would be noticed and approved of by Lady Falconer when she returned.

There was not a great deal of conversation between father and daughter at the table, but there was a pleasant atmosphere of which they were both aware. Frequently, they exchanged smiles and little nods and raising of the eyebrows – they were so agreeably comfortable. But Sir Edward was worried. He hid his anxiety well, but it was there, and he recognised it as causing his headaches. ‘You are frowning dreadfully, Papa,’ Charlotte said. ‘Is the chicken too spicy?’

‘The chicken is delicious, just how I like it.’

‘Good. So?’

Sir Edward sighed. ‘Money,’ he said, ‘nothing for you to worry about.’

‘Money?’ echoed Charlotte. ‘Lack of it, you mean?’

‘No, thank God. What to do with it, how to be wise with it.’

‘What is wrong with putting it in the bank?’

‘Quite a lot, at the moment.’

‘Spend it then. I’m sure Mama could spend it easily.’

‘I am sure she could. She does very well as it is.’

Charlotte heard the sarcasm. ‘I should hate to have my head full of worry about how to spend money.’

‘My head is not full of how to spend money,’ Sir Edward said, quite sharply. ‘It was you who advised spending it. It is my job to conserve it, not spend it.’

‘For what? Why must it be conserved?’

‘Charlotte, you are an intelligent girl. Do not ask silly questions. For a moment you sounded like …’ He stopped.

‘… Like Priscilla,’ Charlotte finished. ‘I know. I am sorry. I know we need money to live on, especially in these’ (she paused) ‘uncertain’ (she paused again, hoping to make her father smile) ‘times.’

Why times were uncertain she had no idea, but she had heard the phrase repeated by adults frequently. But there seemed nothing uncertain in her own dull life. Everything went on in exactly the same way, nothing as exciting as uncertainty ruffled its surface. Priscilla’s wedding had been the last time there had been any upheaval and that was months ago. ‘Explain,’ she said to her father. ‘Tell me about
why
times are uncertain.’

‘It is too complicated.’

‘You mean I am too stupid to understand?’

‘No. I am too stupid to be able to explain properly what I fail entirely to understand myself.’

‘But, Papa, you are so clever, everyone knows that.’

‘Am I? Well, everyone, in this instance, is mistaken.’

Sir Edward leaned back in his chair, declining pudding. He was not allowed to smoke at table when his wife was present, and he quite agreed that to do so was bad manners, but he took a cigarette out and lit it, taking care to blow the smoke away from Charlotte devouring the chocolate pudding. The window was
open
(another thing his wife would have disagreed with) and the room was airy. The view was of Hampstead Heath, stretching away down the hill, and through the trees he could just see the sun glinting on the ponds. He might go for a walk later, when Charlotte was in bed. Walking helped him to think about what to do not just about investments but about Charlotte. He had promised her that they would go to Paris and then Florence and Rome to study the art, and he intended to keep his promise, but now his wife wished to accompany them, though not of course with any intention of looking at paintings and statues. He had not yet told Charlotte this. She was still under the impression that it was to be only the two of them, and had looked forward to this adventure for so long. If he was clever, he would see a way to solve the problem but so far he had not done so.

He stubbed out his cigarette as Charlotte finished his share of the pudding as well as her own. She was getting fat. He could see the fat settling upon her frame. Her mother endlessly pointed it out, appalled that her daughter’s waist was confirmed by her dressmaker as twenty-eight inches, and her hips as forty, though she was not yet sixteen. And she refused – Sir Edward did not think he ought to know this but he had been made to hear it – to be corseted. Even if he had not been told, he would have been aware of this. Charlotte bounced as she walked. Her mother felt she should not be allowed out of the house in such an unrestrained state but as she rarely went anywhere, and insisted on wearing a long black cape whatever the weather, it did not really matter. In her darkest moments, his wife had said to Sir Edward that they would be stuck with her for ever.